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The girls won't tell me what happened, though. My sisters give me looks that tell me there is trouble brewing, and my chest is tight, constricting as I climb the stairs, wanting to get to Prairie, wanting to be sure she is okay.
At the top of the stairs, when I reach Fig’s bedroom door, I see Mom on the bed with Prairie, who’s crying just like I expected.
I walk into the room.
“What are you saying to her?” I ask Mom. “What did you say to make her upset? It’s the last thing she needs right now.”
“It's okay, Rye,” Prairie says, reaching for my hand. “You don't need to get angry.”
“Like hell I don’t. I don't want anybody upsetting you.”
“Nobody is upsetting her. We're just talking, Rye,” Mom says, standing. “I can have a conversation with Prairie without you barging in here, thinking you're going to save the day.”
I clench my jaw. Squeeze Prairie's hand. Tight. “I think it's time for us to go.”
Prairie looks up at me. “You sure?”
“Yes, Prairie, I'm sure.”
She nods, hearing me. “All right.” Turning to my mom, she speaks. “Annie,” she says, stepping toward her and wrapping her in a quick hug. “Thank you so much for dinner. I haven't had spaghetti and meatballs in years, and it was just delicious. Your garlic bread is to die for.”
“Oh, that's an old family recipe. I’ll write it down for you if you'd like.”
Prairie laughs. “Well, I can't imagine making bread from scratch but I could give it a try. Thank you again for your warmth and your hospitality. And all of these clothes here.”
She hands me two large shopping bags and I carry them downstairs.
I appreciate my mom’s and Prairie’s ability to defuse the situation. Well, I suppose what I mean is their ability to defuse me.
When we walk into the living room, I see everyone else is getting ready to play a game of charades.
Slices of peach pie à la mode are in bowls on the coffee table and in people's laps.
There's a pot of coffee made and it smells real good. I'm sorely tempted to sit down and say screw my irritation, but Prairie needs to go. I don't want her to deal with all the drama that's going to come with a game of charades because with this family, hell, it’s a competition no matter what we’re playing.
“You’re leaving so soon?” Mac asks, frowning.
I nod. “Yeah. It's been a long day. We're going to head home. Catch up with you guys later.”
Dad stands and gives Prairie a squeeze of her shoulder. “I'm glad you could come out tonight.”
I set the bags under a tarp in the bed of my truck. Then I open Prairie’s door for her, trying to forget about Luke’s picture hanging in the hallway and my mother thinking I don’t know what I want.
Once I turn the car on, the heat blasting, and start rolling down the mountain, I tell Prairie what I really think.
“Look,” I say, “I think maybe you and I, we ought to go back up to the Rough Forest for a while.”
“Rye,” Prairie starts. “Can we just talk when we get home—”
“My dad says my cousin Cash is helping him with the family business. And maybe he can keep on helping. We can go up to the forest. We can set up shop for a month, maybe two, or even longer.”
“Rye, I’m not running away. I want to stay put. You build houses, maybe you’ll understand this metaphor. I want to lay a foundation. I want to build from the ground up. I don’t want to hide.”
I shake my head because that won’t work here. The secret, it’s too big, and if I stay in Home, it will swallow me whole. “We can stay up there as long as we want,” I tell her as I drive. “We can even plant a garden this spring. Make that place our home—”
“Stop the car, Rye. Listen to me!” Prairie urges. “You aren’t listening!”
We’ve just crossed the bridge over the Rough River toward my cabin, and I pull off to the side of the road.
